


Flickers

by ipsilateral



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipsilateral/pseuds/ipsilateral
Summary: He holds his breath and waits to be born again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [shipstorms](http://shipstorms.tumblr.com)

i.

They pass many people at first. Families and couples, as well as large groups of children much younger than Credence, wearing mud-splattered shorts, hair wet and matted down. Mama doesn't say a word as they run by loudly, scraping sticks over the dirt.

She leads him downriver, far away enough that the sounds of birds and churning water are all Credence can hear. Summer has brought an unrelenting heat and the world feels heavy under it. He stares down at his feet, trying not to step on the cracks spiderwebbing through the dry earth. They walk far enough that he's able to count each footstep to the highest number he knows, then start over, then again once more. 

"Here," Mama finally says. 

They've come to a clearing under the shade of a large, overhanging tree. Flowers bloom all along the branches in dazzling white, and its lowest leaves lap at the river water. There are several people gathered around the area, a few in the river already. 

Credence thinks of Eden and Gethsemane. He feels at peace as he watches the others give themselves over to God; he can see why Mama wants so very much for him to be saved as well.

When Mama nods at him, Credence removes his shoes and wades into the river. He repeats the blessing, _in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost_. Water pours down over his face, and then his head is guided underwater and everything goes dark and silent. Credence is weightless, formless, each piece of him on the verge of slipping away with the current. When he opens his mouth, cold water twinges at his teeth. 

He holds his breath and waits to be born again.

 

ii.

 

Mama doesn't mean to strike him so harshly. At least, Credence doesn't think so. She's usually careful outside of the confines of church, reserved and almost eerily calm. Likely she was aiming to box his ears but he had turned his head at the last second, and the blow had landed just above his right eye instead.

Credence grunts and tries to shield the wound, but she bats his hand away as well. "Stop that. Do not coddle yourself, Credence," she orders. 

Already his eyelid is sagging and hot. "But Mama," he protests, and she does manage to box his ears this time, followed by a quick slap to the same eye. Red starbursts bloom in Credence's vision. He sways, almost falls over.

Someone, a woman, shouts, "No!" and Credence startles, confused, because God is in heaven. Credence has no saviors here on this earth. 

When he looks at Mama, he sees her eyes trembling, but that's the only part of her that seems to be able to move. He slowly follows her path of sight and sees a brown-haired woman hurrying toward them, one arm outstretched and holding a --

Credence's head fills with a high-pitched buzz. _A wand_ , he thinks blankly. Magic suddenly thrums through him and ignites like a dry-brush fire. And it _is_ magic, it has to be. He cannot fathom anything else.

He's dizzy, off-balance, and lets himself collapse onto the ground this time, overwhelmed. 

When he wakes, a dark figure is looming over him. Credence blinks rapidly but the man's face is hidden in shadows.

"What's your name?" the stranger asks. 

"Credence," he answers obediently. His legs are curled up toward his chest. "Credence Barebone."

The stranger kneels down. "So you are," he says in a low voice, and he sounds almost breathless. Credence is still trying to make out a face when something brushes his temple -- _"obliviate"_ \-- and he forgets.

 

iii.

 

The first time Mr. Graves heals his injuries, Credence becomes angry. It could be so easy and yet he's trapped in this terribly ordinary human body, just defenseless blood and bones and skin. Mr. Graves secures his arms tightly to his sides, holding him through his fit, watching him like a struggling bug in a glass.

"It can be learned," he says.

Credence stills. "It can?"

"Of course. Magic can be discovered, but it can also be coaxed out, or even created. Molded."

"How?" Credence asks hungrily. "How do I -- "

"There's a school," Mr. Graves cuts in, eye bright. His grip has tightened around Credence's elbows, but it's a pain that Credence revels in. "A magical school not far from here, where young wizards and witches go to learn."

"Young wizards," Credence repeats. 

"Younger than you," Mr. Graves admits. He tilts his head to the side, eyes flitting down to examine Credence's jaw, the strong jut of his throat. "But I can teach you, Credence. From the beginning. We don't have to send you away to that school at all."

The lure of magic is almost too strong. He feels it every time Mr. Graves snaps into being out of nowhere. And yet there's a calmness in the Second Salemers church that he clings to, a certain dread that's familiar and feels like home. Credence has never in his life felt the pull of such opposites -- he wants to stand and defy Mama even as he bows his head and takes her lashes, wants to scream in the street even as he cowers when strangers spit at him. Wants to give himself over to Mr. Graves completely, body and soul, a vessel for the magic that so clearly surrounds him.

"Here," Mr. Graves murmurs, finally loosening his grip, "I've been too harsh on you. Let me," and then more wounds are erasing themselves from Credence's palms and wrists. 

Before Credence can help himself, he crosses his arms and turns away sharply. "No, not those, not -- ," he blurts aloud, " -- those. Please." If he squeezes hard enough, he can feel the twinge of fresh bruises, a small echo of where Mr. Graves had grabbed him so roughly just seconds before. 

Credence is used to giving things away: pamphlets to strangers, food to Modesty, his own belt to Mama. But these bruises, these marks, he wants to keep.

Ashamed, he stares down at the impeccably shined shoes pointed towards him. There's a small puddle a few inches away, and several footprints etched into the mud surrounding it -- the heel of a small child's oxfords, the bigger stamps of grown men. A horn honks distantly and someone yells in response. Cars rattle past, each one getting louder and louder until all Credence can hear is the roar of engines, one by one, and the sounds of his heartbeat pounding quicker than a cornered animal's.

And still, when he finally glances up, Mr. Graves is looking at him. Credence squeezes his elbows almost instinctively, and the dull, familiar pain is a welcome escape. 

 

iv.

 

A month has passed, and Credence has not been able to give Mr. Graves what he so desires. A month is too long; they're both growing impatient, though with Credence there seems to be a new, deeper undercurrent to his desperation, one that has him sleepless and moaning helplessly into his pillow at night.

He paces along the alley and waits.

As soon as Mr. Graves appears, Credence drops to his knees. The motion is almost instinctive by now. Mama had taught him very young that any emotional outburst, any wrongdoing, any bad thoughts, no matter how fleeting, must be righted immediately. Kneel before Him, ask for forgiveness. 

"Credence?" Mr. Graves questions. He unbuttons his coat with quick little twists of his fingers. 

"I haven't done what you've asked of me. I haven't fulfilled my promises," Credence answers. He looks up at Mr. Graves. "Will you forgive me?" 

For a long moment, Mr. Graves doesn't answer. Instead he reaches out, cupping the back of Credence's neck, and lets loose a deep sigh. 

Credence tilts his head back even more and closes his eyes, breathing shallowly through his open mouth. As the gravel bites into his knees, he thinks of cold water falling over his face and wetting his lips; the river enveloping him whole, slithering down his throat, filling him up to the brim.

Mr. Graves' fingers have slid up into Credence's hair. He suddenly makes a fist and tugs sharply, and Credence is pulled back into the world with a loud gasp.


End file.
